Sleepy Sunday One-Shots
by LeanaM
Summary: PierreJ92 and I have gotten into the habit of challenging each other to a write-off of an hour on Sunday evenings, one of us choosing pairings and the other a prompt. The stories in this collection are the result of those write-offs. Published with minimal editing. Pairing mentioned in each chapter.
1. Burn (Drinny)

**Prompt:**

 _"Well, I don't think you should."_  
 _"Well I don't recall asking what you think."_

* * *

 **Burn**

* * *

Ginny waved the bartender over with a slightly shaky hand. "Gimme 'nother cocktail." She tapped against her glass, in which there was barely a sip left of the Avada-green concoction she'd ordered before, swirling along the ice cubes.

The man eyed her up and down with raised eyebrows, then disappeared to the other side of the bar with a nod and a shrug.

Ginny turned around on her stool and let her eyes wander over the dancing crowds. The music seemed too loud, the people too cheerful, their clothes too garish in the strobing lights. She didn't really want to be here. But she didn't want to go home either. Not when her mother would bemoan her breakup with Harry yet again, even though it had been six months. Not when she would be constantly confronted with pictures of her brothers and their happy, smiling wives. She didn't begrudge them their happiness, but after a long Weasley brunch where everyone was present and her mother had continued her passive-aggressive attacks on Ginny's single state with vigour, she resented each and every one of them for finding the happiness that was just out of reach for her.

A tap on her shoulder warned her that the barman had placed a new glass next to her elbow and she reached around to take a sip without looking.

She spat it out as soon as the liquid touched her tongue and turned around furiously.

"Water?"

It was not the barman, however, who smirked at her. It was Draco Bloody Malfoy.

"I asked for another cocktail."

Malfoy shrugged one shoulder and placed his hands on the bar, leaning closer with a confidential air. "You've had quite enough to drink, Weasley."

Ginny scowled. Who did he think he was, anyway? Bloody prat. "I want to have another drink. Alcohol. I want more alcohol."

Draco raised an eyebrow, as if to challenge her statement. His eyes gleamed a strange, unearthly colour in the flashing club lights. "Well, I don't think you should."

"Well I don't recall asking what you think." The words snapped out of her mouth before Ginny could stop them.

Malfoy's mouth stretched into a toothy grin. "Unfortunately for you, Weasley, I own this club, and if I tell my barman not to serve you anything but water, you won't get anything but water."

"It's none of your fucking business what I do or do not drink, Malfoy," Ginny hissed, infuriated.

Malfoy leaned just a little closer to her. They were almost nose to nose and Ginny was momentarily distracted by the light, barely noticeable sprinkle of freckles on his nose. Who knew that flawless Malfoy skin was not quite so perfect up close? Her eyes snapped up to his and she couldn't look away. Had his eyes always been so entrancing? His mouth moved but she was so lost in his gaze that she didn't register what he said.

"What?"

"I said, Weasley, that it may not be any of my business what you do or do not drink, but it is my business that some unsavoury types have been circling you all night, eyeing you like candy. They tried to bribe the barman to spike your drink. That's why you're getting water now."

Ginny flushed bright red when his words began to make sense. She swallowed with difficulty, her embarrassment quickly turning to anger. "I don't need _you_ to save me, Malfoy."

There seemed to be a momentary flash of hurt passing through his features, but it was gone before she could pinpoint it, his face melting into a mask of disinterest. He merely raised his eyebrows, as if in salute, then moved away from her.

Ginny hated how her hand trembled when she took another sip of the water. It was anger, she told herself. She was trembling with fury. Of course she was. But deep down, she knew it was the relief of having escaped a terrible fate.

* * *

It took her a full week to swallow her pride and admit to herself that she should really go back and thank Malfoy for helping her. _Helping_ , not saving, she didn't _need_ saving… She also didn't need to spend hours in her room deciding what to wear for this particular encounter. The silk teal dress really was the only appropriate thing she had in her closet. Even if the cleavage was, perhaps, a little deep.

The club was as busy as the week before, but, try as she might, she couldn't see Malfoy anywhere. She hoovered around the bar, carefully guarding her drink while her eyes searched for the gleam of platinum blond among the masses. Eventually she turned to the bartender to ask where the infuriating git was hiding. "Where's your boss today?"

The bartender looked her over, a flash of recognition in his eyes. Then he smiled. "The office." He gestured at a door marked _Private_. "Go on up, it's through there."

Ginny hesitated only for a moment. She could just go away, she didn't have to seek him out. But her sense of honour dictated she should thank him, and, as she was here, she might as well get it over with.

The doubt returned twice as forcefully when she stood before his door, her hand raised to knock, but unable to move. She took a deep breath and rapped her knuckles on the door.

"Come in."

The deep, mellow voice sent a shiver down her spine. She entered the office and closed the door behind her, leaning against it and examining the room.

It was a large office, a floor to ceiling window overlooking the club on one side, and a similar window on the other side, where the blinds were now closed. Draco Malfoy sat behind a big mahogany desk, bent over a stack of ledgers, hair tousled, glasses slightly askew on his nose, dressed in a casual white shirt that had the top buttons undone and the sleeves folded back over his arms. He looked up when she entered, the vaguely polite smile fading into a barely suppressed gasp of surprise.

"I didn't realise there was a window into the club," Ginny blurted out. The sight of Malfoy's bare arms, the Dark Mark starkly contrasting with his pale skin, had disconcerted her.

"It's supposed to be a one-way window. I like to keep an eye on what's happening on the floor now and then."

Had Malfoy's voice been quite so gravelly last time they spoke? Had it ever been? Ginny didn't remember, and didn't care. Her eyes lingered on the Dark Mark, then snapped up to Malfoy's face. Since when did he wear glasses, anyway?

"Like you kept an eye on me last week?" She scrutinised his expression for any indication of… of what exactly, she didn't know, but she wanted his smooth mask of indifference to crack. She didn't realise she was holding her breath, waiting for his answer, until her lungs began to burn with the need for oxygen.

Malfoy seemed to study her for an extraordinarily long time, slowly taking his glasses off and placing them carefully on the desk before he answered. "You're a special case."

Ginny let her breath escape in a soft hiss. It was now or never. "I wanted to thank you. For what you did then. And also apologise for my behaviour. I was rude and ungrateful. I'm sorry." The words tumbled out of her mouth in an incoherent jumble, nothing like the prettily worded apology she'd prepared beforehand. She flushed a little.

She waited for Malfoy's reaction. His eyes widened, then his lips curled up in a smile. She'd never seen him smile before. She promptly forgot how to breathe.

Malfoy rose from his seat with the grace of a panther and stalked over to her, his eyes intent on hers. She couldn't look away. She wanted him close and she never wanted him to reach her. One hand clutched the door handle, ready to escape. The other clenched around that wrist stopping any movement.

Then he was there, right in front of her, so close she could see that hint of freckles again. His eyes gleamed bright as lightning. She was surrounded by his scent, fresh grass, peppermint, something wooden. His smile was even more brilliant up close. Her heart beat an irregular tattoo in her chest, so violently she was sure he could hear it.

"You're very welcome," he said.

Ginny blinked in confusion. It was suddenly hard to remember what their conversation had been about. She licked her lips unconsciously, only realising what she'd done when his eyes dropped to her mouth and then flicked up again, searching her face. His smile faltered a little, and he bit his lip.

Ginny's breath came shallow and fast. The door was hard against her back, the doorknob cold between her fingers. She knew what was happening. She knew what she _wanted_ to happen.

When she next licked her lips, it was slow, sensuous, deliberate. Her eyes held a challenge she hoped he wouldn't resist.

From Malfoy's sharp intake of breath she knew that he had seen the challenge. He brought his right hand up and flattened it against the door next to her head. His left hand trailed slowly along the edge of her silk dress, from the point of the deep V-neck all the way up to her shoulder. His fingers just about brushed her bare skin, making goosebumps erupt all over her chest. He caged her against the door, leaning in a little closer, his lips soft and open.

But she had made the mistake to look down as his hand travelled up along her dress. She couldn't help but notice the Dark Mark on his arm. She blanched, her eyes widening, not in lust but in fear. She suppressed those feelings immediately, but it was too late. He hadn't moved away from her, but she saw in his face that the desire was gone. His face had shuttered once more, his grey eyes dark as thunder.

"Don't play with fire if you don't want to get burned, Weasley," he said, hints of disappointment and anger in his voice.

Ginny let go of the door and brought her hands up to his shirt, fingering his buttons. Her eyes were riveted on his. She wanted to see that lightning again. "I do want to burn." The moment she said it, she knew it was true.

Malfoy only shook his head. "That's part of me, Weasley," he said, with a nod to the Mark. "If you can't stand the sight of it, you can't stand the sight of me."

And with an air of finality, he pushed himself away from the door and returned to his desk. He took up his quill again and began to make notes, ignoring her presence.

Ginny waited for him to look up, for herself to find the right words, but as neither seemed to happen, she eventually gave up, and, with a sigh, she decided to leave.

"Goodnight, then, Malfoy," she said over her shoulder, before closing the door behind her.


	2. Worth Fighting For (Pansmione)

**Prompt:**

"I told you I wanted serious..."  
"I know."  
"Yet, you trampled over me anyways."

* * *

 **Worth Fighting For**

* * *

Hermione wipes her tears away with angry gestures. She doesn't want to cry. Not again. _Damn the woman. Damn her to hell._

"Hermione?"

The sound of her voice makes Hermione stiffen, but she doesn't turn around. "Leave me alone." She's ashamed that her emotions bleed through her voice but she can't help it. She didn't grow up hiding her feelings behind masks of ice, not like…

"Hermione, please."

Hermione takes a deep breath, then gathers her books and starts pushing them into her bag. "Just go away, Parkinson." She still hasn't turned around, is about to move towards the Library doors when a hand falls on her shoulder and the words that tumble from Pansy's lips make her pause.

"I'm sorry."

She jerks away and turns around, furious now. "It's not enough," she hisses. "Saying you're sorry is not enough. I told you I wanted serious… that I…" She can't say the words, not again, and presses her lips together stubbornly. She's said too much already.

"I know." Pansy reaches out for her, but she steps back, away from the hands, the eyes, the mouth that caused so much pleasure, so much pain. She can see Pansy is serious, her eyes shining with unshed tears and her lips trembling with emotion, but she can't forget. She can't _forgive_.

"Yet you trampled over me anyway."

Pansy lowers her head in shame. "I am so sorry. I let my tongue run away with me. It won't happen again, Hermione, I promise. Please. Please don't walk away."

Hermione takes a deep breath, trying to steady her emotions. But no, she can't stay. "You keep doing it, though. We've talked about it and you keep doing it. And I can't just keep forgiving you because it hurts, Pansy. It fucking hurts when you make jokes like that, when you let your friends make jokes like that and laugh with them." She pauses, squares her shoulders and lifts her chin to give herself the boost of confidence she needs to say the next words that have been turning around in her head for a long time.

"You know what, I don't have to sit there and let your friends take the piss out of me. Not any more. If you can't stand up for me against them, you're not willing to fight for me. So this is it. The end. Have a nice life, Pansy. But I won't be part of it."

And before Pansy can react, before the tears start flowing again, she turns around and flees the Library, all but running through the corridors to Gryffindor Tower, where she can hide in safety and cry in the solitude of her own bed.

* * *

She ignores Pansy's letters, doesn't read them, sends a well-aimed _Incendio_ their way before they even arrive at her table in the Great Hall. The school owls have begun to resent bringing her anything, but she doesn't relent. She notices, of course, that Pansy looks terrible. She is paler than ever, more unkempt than she has ever seen her, but she tells herself to steel her heart. It's probably just a Slytherin tactic to make her feel sorry, anyway. _Bloody Slytherins._ She tried to give them a chance after the war when she came back to Hogwarts to complete her education. Merlin knows she got along with some of them just fine - even more than that - but she couldn't stand the way they made fun of Muggleborns, _of her_ , still calling her the same names as ever, as if the War never happened. And she did try to ignore it, but it hurt. Because the War _has_ happened, and people _have_ died, and the world _has_ changed. It has to have changed, or all their sacrifices would have been for nothing. That's why she decided to walk away, and that's why she's ignoring them all now.

* * *

She doesn't know what to think when she walks into a classroom that is supposed to be empty and finds it full of Slytherins, Pansy standing at the blackboard as if she is teaching.

"What is going on here?"

But it's not Pansy who answers. Pansy takes one look at her, blanches and stares at the shiny black tips of her dragonskin shoes.

"That really is none of your business, Granger. We have the Headmistress' permission to use this classroom and we owe you no explanation." It's Theodore Nott who answers, raising a challenging eyebrow at her. But she bites back a sharp retort, just shrugs and walks out again.

Her curiosity is peaked, though. She resists for several days, but eventually calls on the Headmistress in her office, her curiosity getting the better of her. She thinks not knowing is the worst torture.

"Professor, what are the Slytherins doing in the old Charms classroom on the fourth floor?"

Minerva McGonagall looks at her through her square glasses, a penetrating stare that makes Hermione shift uncomfortably.

"Take a seat, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall says eventually. "And have a biscuit."

Hermione accepts the biscuit and shoves it in her mouth to stop herself from repeating her question. She knows it will only irritate the Headmistress, and she really, really wants to know. But McGonagall is silent for a long time.

"Do not take my silence as a reluctance to explain, Miss Granger. I am merely surprised at your request. When Miss Parkinson came to me with her proposal, I was certain it was at your instigation." It looks as if the Headmistress wants to say more, and a faint blush explains what way her thoughts were going.

Hermione tries to ignore the knot that is settling heavily in her stomach. "What… what proposal?"

"Miss Parkinson proposed to organise a series of workshops for those children who had grown up prejudiced… Pureblood children mostly, but not exclusively. She wanted to help them shed their prejudices and harmful habits. I think Muggles call this sensitivity training? She prepared the courses by herself and used a lot of Muggle reference books. I was very happy to give her permission, of course. I may even see if I include it in the curriculum next year. Miss Parkinson makes an excellent teacher, even if she still is learning herself. I must admit I thought it was mostly your influence, but now I realise you had no idea, I'm really proud of her and ashamed I didn't give her due praise at the time. I guess even I must learn to relinquish my prejudices. What an interesting thought." Her voice trails off and she stares dreamily out of the window, a slight frown on her face. Then she shakes herself. "Was there anything else, Miss Granger?"

Hermione is too stunned to say anything, she merely shakes her head and rises to leave.

"She's an interesting woman, that Miss Parkinson. Someone, perhaps, worth fighting for."

McGonagall's words slice through Hermione like a knife. They make her feel inadequate, as if she gave up too soon, as if she's to blame for the rupture, as if she's the one who made the mistake.

"I shouldn't have to fight. I've had enough of fighting. I shouldn't have to swallow humiliating and hurtful comments and pretend like it doesn't matter. It fucking does matter. Maybe she's the one who refused to fight, did that occur to you?" Hermione knows her voice is rising to a shrill shriek as she continues to yell at the Headmistress, but she can't help it. It's just too much.

Mcgonagall gets up from her seat and rounds her desk in a moment, and then Hermione is pulled into her arms. The hug makes the dams break and she starts sobbing again. McGonagall just holds her, comforts her, until the tears slow and Hermione breaks away, mortified at her own behaviour.

Then she does something Hermione had never expected. She cups Hermione's cheek and says, softly, "My dear girl, of course you shouldn't have to suffer abuse. Of course you've already done so much in your young life. But love, real love, is worth fighting for. Never forget that. It's so rare to find someone who is willing to take on the world for you." Then she steps back and walks to the door. "I need to see Madam Pomfrey about something. You can stay here as long as you need, Miss Granger." And then Hermione is alone in the Headmistress' office, stunned, confused, and hopeful.

* * *

It takes her a few more weeks before she can muster up the courage to seek out Pansy again. But in those few weeks, she sees a difference, a marked difference, in the way the Purebloods treat the others in the school. There are no more blood status jokes, fewer cruel insults. The small needle-prick comments that used to set her teeth on edge appear less and less.

She finds Pansy sitting at the lake, a book on her lap and a blanket around her shoulders. It's the blanket Hermione had knitted her over Christmas and it sends a painful thrill through her body to see Pansy hasn't tossed it yet. It really is an ugly blanket, but then, it's also very warm, and it is still cold out in March.

"Hey."

Pansy looks up sharply, her eyes widening when she sees Hermione. "Hey."

Hermione sits down next to her and looks out over the lake. It takes her a while to gather her thoughts and determine what she will say first.

"I went to see McGonagall. She told me… She told me what you did."

Pansy doesn't say anything, but the hands clenching the book on her lap turn white with tension.

"Thank you."

Pansy lets her breath escape in a hiss and Hermione glances sideways, but Pansy's face is turned away from her and she can't guess what Pansy is thinking.

"I'd thought about long before… I mean, I'd started preparing the whole thing shortly before Christmas. Because I knew…" She sighs and finally turns her head to face Hermione. "You said you wanted serious."

"I know," Hermione says, in a strange echo from their last conversation. She meets Pansy's gaze without hesitation.

"I am serious about you. I'm so serious I want to change the whole world so you never have to face prejudice again. But I'm still learning, Hermione, just like all these other kids. It's no excuse for prejudice and hatred, and I know that, but I'm learning because I want to be better for you. I'll still make mistakes. Everyone does when they try to unlearn the bigotry they grew up with. But I'm changing and I'm learning and I will overcome it. I promise, Hermione."

Hermione takes a deep breath. "You really are kind of amazing, you know that?"

Pansy smiles, hesitating but then more fully when Hermione returns the smile. But then she asks the question she doesn't really want the answer to. "So what does this mean for us?"

Hermione shrugs. "I… I think I will forgive you. I'm not quite there yet, I have to admit, but in time."

Pansy nods. "I understand." She can't quite keep the disappointment out of her voice, but she tries. "I'll wait. You're worth waiting for."


	3. Join me (Oliphne)

_Written in one hour and posted with minimal editing._ _This time I chose the prompt:_

 _\- Why can't you just do what I ask you?_  
 _\- Because you're so cute when you get annoyed_

 _PierreJ92 chose the pairings: Charlie Weasley/Nymphadora Tonks or Oliver Wood/Daphne Greengrass._

 _Make sure you read the accompanying one-shot PierreJ92 wrote as well!_

* * *

Daphne entered her flat, tired after a long day's work at Gringotts. She loved her job, but dealing with Goblins could be very exhausting. She knew Oliver was home already as soon as she set one foot inside. The hallway floor was littered with dirty clothes and pools of mud, a broomstick tossed haphazardly against the sideboard instead of placed in the broom cupboard and Keeper's gloves crunching under her feet.

Her bag and purse dropped on the floor with a thud. Her hands curled into fists and she pressed her lips together to try and fight the tears. _It was too much._ _It was all too much._ She couldn't handle this right now. Not after six hours of negotiating new terms for a Ministry loan. Not after spending all week walking on eggshells around the Goblins in a desperate attempt not to offend them before the final negotiations.

She'd wanted to come home, curl up on the sofa with her boyfriend and have a glass of wine, and just enjoy the evening together. Now she would have to clean first, to make sure the mud wouldn't leave stains on their wooden floorboards, cook, because Oliver clearly hadn't remembered it was his turn, and only then she'd be able to relax. _It was too much._

At that moment, the door to the bathroom opened and Oliver stepped out, a towel slung low around his hips and his chest and hair still dripping wet from his shower. The steam rose up from his body and twirled away into the bathroom. He smiled at her, and, as always, she forgot for just a second how annoyed she was with him and enjoyed the sight. He was quite handsome.

He was also a git.

"I thought I heard something," he said, with a grin. "Want to join?"

But Daphne couldn't return the smile. "How many times have I had to tell you not to leave your dirty quidditch gear out in the hallway? How many times have I asked you not to leave mud on the floor?" She took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears of fatigue and frustration that threatened to fall. "I would love to join you, you know, but I just can't. I need to clean because my boyfriend is such an irresponsible, immature pig." She'd wanted to scream but started sobbing instead, unable to hold back any longer.

Two strong arms came around her and pulled her into a hot and damp hug. "It's just some mud, my love, don't worry about it," he murmured in her ear.

She shook her head with stubborn determination, but leaned into the hug anyway. She hid her face in his neck, trying to stop the tears. She knew she was overreacting. She was just too tired to care. "Don't you see? It's not just some mud. It's me doing this cleaning thing every single time you come back from a rainy training and I just can't deal with it right now! Is it really so hard to Apparate into the bathroom? Is it so hard to clear your broom out of the way?"

Oliver held her even closer and began to pepper kisses on her cheek and neck and behind her ear, any place he could reach. "I'm sorry," he said between kisses. "I'll make it up to you. Don't worry."

Daphne wanted to object, wanted to scream, wanted to cry some more, but when she lifted her head from his shoulder to face him, the words of reproach died in her throat. The hallway was spotless. The broom was shuffling into its cupboard among the others. There was no trace of mud or dirty clothes left. "How?"

Oliver chuckled. "I practised my wandless magic. I'm sorry, my love, I should have done this before I entered the shower but I was just so cold. You know what these winter trainings are like."

Daphne shook her head in disbelief. "Why can't you just do what I ask you the first time round?"

Oliver tipped her head up and brought their lips close together. "Because you're so cute when you get annoyed." Before she could react, he kissed her, his lips slowly, insistently, devouring hers.

She sighed into the kiss and let him take over, anticipation and desire bursting through every vein in her body until a fire settled low in her abdomen, pulsing, thrumming, longing. The anger and frustration of moments before transformed into a violent hunger only he could satisfy. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, careless of the water that soaked through her silk dress, but very, _very_ aware of the hard length that poked her thigh. Her hands slid down his chest to the towel that did little to hide his erection, and she dropped it to the floor. He gasped when her hands closed around him and started stroking slowly, deliberately, until his body arched into her and he bit her neck with a possessive growl to stop from calling out her name.

Her hands stopped their caresses. "Not yet, you don't," she muttered, still a little angry over the whole mess he had left, even though he had cleaned it up by now.

Oliver kissed and soothed the sting of his bite in apology, then began to unbutton her dress. "Join me?" he asked again. His fingers slid the dress off her shoulders, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I should leave you like this, all fired up. I should just leave. Go to sleep."

Oliver swallowed heavily. "You wouldn't be so cruel." But Daphne's burning gaze met his and he shuddered helplessly at the challenge in her eyes. "Please?"

Daphne's pulse quickened. She always loved to hear him plead. She gave him a calculating look. "Maybe I can be persuaded," she purred in his ear. "Maybe you can begin by taking me to the bathroom?"

Oliver didn't need much more encouragement. He picked her up and carried her across the hallway, her dress slipping off her body and leaving a trail of water-stained silk on the floor. She kicked off her shoes, too, before they made it into the bathroom. He put her down carefully on the bath rug and stepped back, his eyes taking in her body with obvious appreciation. She was suddenly glad she'd decided on red lingerie that morning. He did love his old house colours.

"And now?" Oliver asked, his voice gruff with arousal.

Daphne smiled. "Now I think I might take a shower." She turned her back to him and began to undo her bra, slowly, teasingly, one hook and one strap at the time, until she could hear Oliver growl in frustration and need. She looked over her shoulder and smirked at him before she tossed him her bra. He caught it, of course, with his quick Keeper reflexes. Then she took off her knickers, so slowly her back muscles almost trembled with the strain of bending down. She looked over her shoulder again before tossing him the knickers. "Take care of those for me," she said with a laugh. "You know they're my favourite."

Then she stepped into the shower and turned on the water. For a moment she forgot all about her game of seduction, she just let the water beat down on her face and body and washed off the frustrations of the day, until a cough and movement behind her reminded her of the man waiting for her commands.

She turned to face him, noting the blush of arousal on his chest, the gleam of desire in his eyes, and, of course, the erection straining in her direction.

"Could you help me wash my back, you think?"

Oliver didn't need more invitation than that. He stepped into the shower beside her and began to soap her back with slow, strong movements, massaging the tension out of her muscles until she almost sagged against him. Then he moved his attention to her arms, her shoulders, her neck. She couldn't help the little appreciative moans that escaped from her lips.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "I forgot you'd had such a horrible week. It was the wrong time to tease you."

Daphne shrugged and turned around. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him fiercely. "It's fine," she said when their lips parted. "I'm sorry I overreacted."

Then she ground her hips against his. "Weren't you supposed to convince me of something? I can hardly recall."

Oliver drew in his breath sharply, then lifted her up in one quick movement. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he leaned them against the wall. "Hmm, I don't remember either," he said, his hand sneaking around underneath her and teasing her slit. "Is it this you want?"

Daphne tried to move her hips to create friction but he put his hand back on her waist and grinned at her.

"You know that's not what I want. Don't tease me, Oliver."

He paused only to give her another heated kiss before positioning himself at her entrance and nudging his way in without pushing through. She whined in frustration and bit his shoulder. "Don't tease me," she repeated, more forcefully.

Oliver captured her lips with his and at the same moment that he thrust his tongue in her mouth, he entered her. She gasped with pleasure and moaned into his mouth.

"As you wish," he murmured. Then he began to thrust into her, his hand sneaking down between them to circle her nub until she was trembling in his arms and cried out his name. He came immediately after her, unable to hold back any longer. They slid down on the shower floor, his legs unable to carry them both, the hot water still beating down on them.

Daphne leaned her head on his shoulder and tangled a hand in his hair, toying with it. She knew he loved it when she did that. "That certainly wasn't bad," she murmured happily.

"Not bad? You wench," Oliver said. "I'll show you not bad!"

Daphne laughed and reached over head to turn off the shower. "Later. Let's get some food first."

"Take out?" Oliver suggested. "Then neither of us have to cook. And I'll take care of dinner tomorrow."

Daphne snuggled deeper into his embrace, not quite ready to get up yet. "That would be nice," she sighed.


	4. Love or Die (NevillexDaphne)

**Prompt:**

 _\- "Is that a dead body?"_  
 _\- "Maybe?"_  
 _\- "It is. I can see it right in front of me."_  
 _\- "I promise I'll clean it up before dinner!"_

* * *

 **1997**

Neville snuck through the corridors of Hogwarts, moving quietly from one shadow to another. He had just raided the kitchens and was trying to get his loot to the Room of Requirement without being caught. It was too early for him to get caught. The students of Hogwarts needed him, he couldn't go underground yet. But many of his house mates had, unable to cope with the strict and excruciating Death Eater regime. Gryffindors did not like to stand idly by while innocent youngsters were being used as target practice for curses that were not quite unforgivable, but very nearly so.

He'd almost reached the seventh floor when a sudden noise made him dive into an alcove. Just in time. Footsteps ran past him, a young girl, sobbing, blond hair flying behind her, her Hogwarts robe torn and trailing from one shoulder. He swallowed. She was a Slytherin, he'd seen the flash of green and silver. But she was clearly upset. He waited, quietly, but there was no other sound, so he ventured out again. He knew he didn't have much time left before the Carrows would start on their nightly rounds again. Minerva had warned him she wouldn't be able to keep them past ten.

He turned a corner and stopped dead in his tracks. In the flickering torchlight, he saw a body, outstretched on the floor, and a girl in Slytherin robes standing over it. She looked up, her blue eyes flashing dangerously, her wand pointing at him before he even had time to place his hand on his own. He recognised her. The elder Greengrass girl.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice sharp, the wand that was pointing at him never wavering.

"I need to pass this corridor." Neville glanced around, then back at Greengrass. There was no other way to the Room of Requirement. If she didn't let him pass, he'd have to hide and wait until she left.

"Why?"

"I believe that is none of your business."

Her eyes flicked to the bulging bag in his hands, then back at him, the question evident in her eyes.

"Food."

She cocked her head, then nodded decisively. She stepped to the side and leaned against the wall. "Off you go then," she said, with a majestic sweep of her wand.

Neville wondered for a moment if she'd curse him in the back, then decided it was a risk he was willing to take. He took a few steps and was about to shuffle past the outstretched figure on the floor, when he was struck by the unnatural pallor of the man.

"Is… Is that a dead body?"

The words escaped before he could think the better of it. He looked up, straight into her wand. They were close now, hardly two feet apart, and he knew he couldn't escape. He noticed the wand was trembling, though.

"Maybe," she said.

"It is. I can see it right in front of me. Who was he?" Neville wasn't sure whether to be shocked or impressed. He didn't recognise the face, but he did see the shadow of a Dark Mark on his forearm.

"He was a pig," Daphne hissed. "He tried to rape my sister. She's fourteen. My sister!" Her voice rose in agony and Neville reached out to take her hand. He squeezed it comfortingly. "Seems you handled it well, then." He looked down at the dead body with disgust. "What are you going to do with it?"

She was quiet for so long that he wondered if she'd answer at all, but when he looked back up, she squeezed his hand in return and her lips turned into a smirk. "Don't worry, I'll clean it up before anyone notices. I believe there are still some Blast-Ended Skrewts somewhere on Hogwarts territory. Nobody will find even a trace of him."

Neville raised an eyebrow but decided not to ask anything further. He needed to go. And yet… Could he just leave her here?

"Are you okay?"

She looked surprised. "Nobody's asked me that in a long time." She let go of his hand quite suddenly and lowered her wand. "I'll let you know. You should go now."

Neville wanted to say something more but the words wouldn't come. So he only nodded and walked on, turning the corner into the corridor with tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

But he looked for those blue eyes regularly during mealtimes and classes. And sometimes, they looked back.

* * *

 **2007**

Daphne heard the front door unlock and open. She closed her eyes for a moment and counted the footsteps. He was in the hallway now… Hanging up his cloak… Moving to the kitchen… Pouring a glass of red wine…

She opened her eyes again, sighed and squared her shoulders.

One…

She opened the door of her office and crossed to the living room.

Two…

"Daphne?"

She opened the door, a big smile on her face, and greeted her husband.

"Hello, love! Good day?"

But Neville didn't look at her. His gaze was transfixed on something that was quite indecorously sprawled on the floor.

Three...

"Daphne, is that a dead body?" He pointed at the thing lying in front of the hearth. His finger trembled just a little.

Daphne walked up to him and kissed his cheek, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. She looked down at the heap of flesh that had once been a man.

"Maybe," she said, temporizing.

Neville shook his head. "It is. A dead body. I can see it right in front of me. Daphne…" His voice trailed off, his eyes finally meeting hers and searching for answers he knew she couldn't give.

"Don't worry, love, I promise I'll clean it up before dinner!"

Neville opened his mouth to retort, but no words seemed adequate to address the situation. He'd walked into any number of strange situations since living with Daphne, but this was by far the strangest.

"Do I want to know where it came from?"

Daphne shrugged, turned him around and walked him back to the kitchen. "I don't know, Nev, do you? I mean, I suppose I could tell you I dug him up from a graveyard but I don't think you'd believe me."

Neville seemed to straighten up and gently kissed her lips. Then he cupped her chin and forced her to look up at him. "You promised not to bring your work home." His voice was quiet but strangely authoritative. It was the I'm-so-disappointed-with-you voice he often used with his students, and it never failed to impress.

It didn't fail this time, either.

Daphne swallowed. "He will be gone in an hour, darling. I am so sorry. I couldn't help it. I.."

Neville placed a finger on her lips. "Don't tell me." Then he let go of her, put his glass down on the table and walked out to the corridor.

"I'm going to the Leaky for an hour or so," he said over his shoulder. "I'll see you later."

Daphne heard the door slam shut and sagged against the kitchen table. She reached out and took Neville's wine, swallowing it down in one go.

"Dammit, Pansy, I told you this was going to be a problem," she muttered under her breath.

* * *

Neville Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron, shaking his head with a fond smile. He did love her so much, his Hit Witch. Harry was at the bar, nursing a Firewhiskey. He looked up when Neville entered and waved him over.

"Ordered you one," Harry said, pushing a Firewhiskey over to him. "Thought you'd have been here earlier."

"I came home late." Neville took a large sip, then coughed. "So it was Pansy again?"

Harry grinned. "She kicked me out and told me to wait for you here. She's gathering the troops to dispose of the body, but it seems there are some issues with the permits."

Neville sighed. "Don't you wish sometimes life wasn't quite so adventurous?"

Harry shrugged. "If you wanted a quiet life, you shouldn't have married a Slytherin."

Then Neville laughed, and a tension he hadn't even noticed was there seemed to drain from Harry's face. "I did fall in love with her over a dead body," he chuckled, "I guess I should have known what I was getting into from the start."

Harry held out his tumbler of Firewhiskey to make a toast. "To our gorgeous assassin wives."

Neville clinked his glass against Harry's. "And may we never piss them off."


End file.
